


Story for Generations

by RieWiggles



Series: Stories of the Wastelanders: MacCready Arc [11]
Category: Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 4
Genre: Adventure, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family History, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 21:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14962479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RieWiggles/pseuds/RieWiggles
Summary: - May or May Not Require all of MacCready Arc -Quinn wants Charlie to know the family history that way she could pass it on for generations. Basically from Parts 1 to 5 in Quinn's words, her commentary and reflection to the events that have happened over the course of her and MacCready's long journey.





	Story for Generations

**Author's Note: I’m trying to fix things up to make this shit better, but in the meantime, my damn urge to keep typing up new shit is still in play. I would say I’m still rusty. I’m heckin’ rusty.**

* * *

 

**2317**

* * *

 

Quinn’s night wasn’t too great. Her head was pounding. The mutkush she smoked wasn’t helping. She shakily placed the marijuana in her ashtray, which was shaped like a middle finger. It was obviously sculpted by clay, with the ceramic piece placed neatly inside the palm. She plopped into her couch, which was patched and painted a grey-ish blue color. A young woman made her way down the stairs, as she sighed to herself. The radio echoed a nice country melody in the room. Charlie stretched, as she felt bare in her leather jumpsuit. It was so bare to her standards that she didn’t even tie her corset.

“Did you have a fun night?” Quinn asked, softly.

Charlie scoffed.

“The defenses needed me. Of course I did.”

The ginger middle-aged woman inhaled the grass she had just pulled off her ash tray. An awkward silence between mother and daughter echoed louder than the singer who repeated “Big Iron on his Hip.”

“Sit down,” Quinn then clicked, before patting down on the couch.

The synth complied. Charlie was confused.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” the synth asked, her legs folded into the cushions.

Quinn gave a short pause.

“I just want to talk.”

Charlie’s heart dropped. She expected a lecture for her actions in regards to her husband. Casian was much less experienced in the whole “marriage” thing, and Charlie, maybe more so, but the reality of it was that she knew Quinn wasn’t referring to the fun night she spent killing the threatening Super Mutants.

A pause came into play between mother and daughter. The ginger woman breathed in, inhaled a deep breath, before placing the small bit of bud back into the ashtray.

“You know I don’t have much time left.”

Charlie nodded.

“I know, Mom. You’re...”

“You don’t have to repeat my condition.”

The synth looked down. Another awkward pause broke out into the room.

“Before I go, I just want you to know something.”

Charlie curled up towards her mother. She wrapped her upper body under Quinn’s torso, before wrapping the left arm around the shoulder. The synth dreaded hearing what was next.

“I want you to know everything that happened to us. From the moment I was born, to the moment your Dad and I met… to even now.”

A pause echoed in the room, constructed with clean wood. The synth sat back. It was humid in the two-story cabin. She looked to the padlocked doors, which showed a view of a small ranch that her family had maintained even before her birth. Charlie looked to her mother.

“Well, we were all born somewhere.”

Quinn chuckled. She looked down as she did, before looking back to her daughter.

* * *

 

Well, what could I say? Your grandpa was a soldier and grandma was a dancer. Of course she wasn’t an exotic dancer, although that would make your history a little more interesting.

“ _Mom!”_

Get used to it. There’s going to be a lot more where that came from. Anyway, I was born in, when? Oh, yeah. It was 2059. That year was when the first artificial intelligence was born, or something like that. I looked it up on a terminal back in the day. My birthday is November 28th. It’s hard to know that I’m a Sagittarius and I was born on a Friday. Your Grandpa was stationed and well, they weren’t married yet. Grandma tried to make it out there as a dancer, but her career was over when she saw that bump with me inside.

“ _So you never told me how birth necessarily works.”_

I shouldn’t. It’s gross. I’m lucky a machine did the work for me. Well, grandma said at first that a stork would come and deliver the baby when it was ready.

“ _What’s a stork?”_

I’ll play the sex part, then. Your grandpa met Grandma at a bar while he was stationed. She was a tap dancer, to, you know, top it off. She wasn’t getting many bites outside Pennsylvania. Grandpa, however, loved her from the moment he saw her. He and some buddies came there to ease for the night, and Grandma saw him, and I guess you could play “Wonderful Guy” on the radio now.

* * *

 

Bernard Quinn was a looker. The women would turn their heads as he walked from place to place. He wasn’t the kind of man who necessarily slept around, although just his gaze would send the ladies swooning. When Karen Blaskowicz moved her eyes to the man who sat in the front row, she felt her body almost lose control. Nonetheless she kept her composure. The brunette woman had wide brown eyes, which glared at the husky man’s closed-set hazel irises. Her straight nose sniffed the daily sweat she emitted from her work. Her pursed lips widened to his direction, as she winked. She didn’t have a voice, as that was to the black-haired woman next to her, who sang a beautiful tune, with the sound of a bird’s hum echoing into the bar. The song was very upbeat, even moreso with Karen’s tapping.

“Baby, it’s just,”

“Baby, it’s just,”

“Baby, it’s just you!”

The song ended, with Karen bowing down to the audience. She looked back up to the man who stared at her with a curious gaze. The curtains closed, but he remained in the bar area, with no word to his fellow comrades. He waited. He waited for her.

After the next performance went into play, Bernard saw that Karen wasn’t on stage. The young, freckled, ginger man emerged from his seat, before making his way outside. His hair was curly, barely moving with the wind, as he followed its direction to the woman who was smoking a cigarette.

“I’m on break!” she barked.

“I’m very sorry,” he said, in a solemn voice. It was smooth… perhaps too smooth. Karen looked over to Bernard, before apologizing.

“I’m sorry to be so rude,” she said, her tone welcoming.

“ _What did Grandma sound like?”_

_Like me._

The ginger offered his coat to her. She refused.

“It’s winter. You’re freezing, ma’am.”

“I just did my cardio workout for the day. I’m fine.”

Her hair was a mess. It was rather long, wavy. It was frizzed, parts flowing down to the bosom. It followed the fringe bottom that moved with her legs.

“May I at least buy you a drink? Is your shift over?”

She looked down, then back up. She was cautious.

“You’re not going to spike my drink, are you?”

“I’m a man of respect, as you can see, ma’am.”

Bernard pointed down to the uniform. Karen wasn’t impressed.

The brunette made her way back into the bar, before the performers were beginning to leave. She wasn’t fond of her coworkers. Wanting to avoid confrontation, Blaskowicz turned back to Quinn.

“Fine. Buy me a drink.”

Quinn obliged, as he led the woman to a stool. He was very gentleman-like. Karen didn’t like that. She nonetheless took a seat, as the bartender poured a champagne for the two. She gulped it down, before demanding another.

“Are you very light on the stomach, ma’am?”

“I didn’t even catch your name. Is this because I winked at you?”

His eyes remained to her silhouette, as she gulped her third drink.

“ _So what did Grandpa sound like?”_

_Very young, from what Mom said. She said he sounded like a great AI detective in this one television show where he helped find some other AI’s. I don’t remember his name. I never watched it. I think it was ‘Connor’ or something like that._

Bernard stood up, before smiling at Karen.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving already?”

“I must be out early. Protocol.”

Karen laughed, before standing up.

“Have you ever stayed up late before in your life?”

* * *

 

Every night since then, your Grandpa would come back to see Grandma perform. They talked a little more, and soon she decided she was done performing there. When he left to go somewhere else, she tried to follow. Grandma ended up, well, homeless. She was always homeless, but at that time she stayed in a very run-down apartment. Slum lords were very out-there prewar. From the conversations I heard growing up, it hinted that she was broke, and “made amends” with the landlord to stay. Don’t imagine, please.

Soon, after Grandpa thought he was no longer going to be drafted, he proposed to Grandma. Of course she was going to say yes. The night they proposed, it was, uh, I think the beginning of the year I was born. I was a little stubborn, from what they told me.

“ _Mom, you’re still stubborn.”_

So anyways, I was born. From the day I was born, Grandpa kept getting drafted. In the 60’s, the New Plague was spreading, and we tried to avoid it to the best to our ability. None of us got sick, but Grandpa was constantly around sick people.

He never stopped going to war. He was promoted year-after-year for his loyal service, and when the Chinese war came up, he almost never came home. In fact, Nate, Shaun’s Dad, saved him.

“ _I remember hearing something about that.”_

Well, what you didn’t know is that Grandpa never came home the same person. After his last draft, he purchased a spot at the Vault we stayed at. That was just the beginning. He locked us up. He pulled me out of school. I finally began to have lasting friends, because we were always moving. I almost had a boyfriend. Grandpa wouldn’t have liked him because… he was very particular with people. Think of it like how humans don’t like synths.

“ _He just didn’t like people?”_

Well… he didn’t like people who were not white.

“ _Wait, you’re implying Grandpa was a racist?”_

Well, he stereotyped a lot. I guess you could say that. Anyways, he was so paranoid that he kept taking our family car over to Smith Casey’s Garage, which is still standing in the Capital Wasteland. I spent hours in there, sometimes with comic books, sometimes without. On the very boring days, because the workers finally knew us by name, they would bring me something to read. Now you know why your Dad and I have been collecting comics all these years. Well, one day, you know what happened. Bombs. Bombs everywhere. We were on our way over, and we made it to the Vault just in time. They threw us in lounger pods and had our brains scanned into some virtual reality.

“ _Virtual Reality?”_

Well, the loungers kept our bodies preserved so we were all left alive. In the virtual reality we were connected to a network with not just our Vault, without my knowledge, but other Vault networks as well. We didn’t pay any mind to them, because the past 200-or-so years felt more like 2. I continued school. It was a “new” school to me, so I didn’t think that all my friends were dead or ghouls. I apparently went on to college and was in my dorm room when I was pulled out of my lounger.

* * *

 

Charlie looked to her mother, even more confused. Quinn looked down. She gave a shaky sigh.

“Are you alright, Mom?” she asked, solemly.

“Tomorrow night,” she said.

“But, I mean, come on, Mom.” She scoffed with her sentence. “Can we just get a small break? I’ll get you a Gwinnett.”

“Are you going to dress me like your Grandfather did as the bottle, because I’m ginger?”

The synth was confused. The mother sighed.

“Your Grandpa wanted me to go as a Gwinnett bottle one year. He wanted to make a ‘Ginger Ale’ joke.”

The synth shook her head. She grabbed the ale from the rusted fridge, before taking a seat back next to her Mom, with one in each hand. Quinn pocketed her cap, as Charlie threw hers to the window. It clapped onto the scratched glass, before tipping a few times on the floor.

“I can barely even keep my eyes open. Tell you what- you grab me some more ale tomorrow, and tomorrow night we can get shitfaced and I’ll tell you more about this stuff.”

Charlie laughed as her mother gulped the warm beer. She turned her torso over, cuddling herself with her mother.

* * *

 


End file.
